Unknown Mirrors
by Seranio
Summary: He's not thinking about it, it's only a dream. But really, he's made it more real than he ever thought possible.    likely and eventual frUK, possible rating change later. thisismebeingoriginalokay.


**Aaaalright. So it's been a long, long looong time. :I But recently, I've just not had much of a passion for putting my thoughts into something slightly real. As for _Ad Vitam Aeternam_, I really don't know. I've kind of gotten off ground with the mood for it (this might actually set it up again), and I sort of feel I might flaw it more if I continue. As I said, though - I may proceed with Alois and his shenanigans, but not until I get just a bit more creative with the plot, get me? c:**

**long author's note is long. continue.**

Running, he remembers running. It's this urgent feeling in his chest that bubbles over out of every pore on his body, makes him tremble with anxiety. But what anxiety? Surely he's not scared, he's laughing a bit like a crazy person, and he's not sure why. He's ridiculously proud of himself, he knows that. There is an underlying fear, though - such as doubt that he's maybe gone too far. He yearns to know just what's made him so ecstatic, so nervous, so fearfully _complete_, but he always rounds the same corner on the same street in the same town. And then there will be that face, a person that's tried to cut him off.

He's nothing special, standing there. The features are never clear enough, but he makes out blonde, long blonde hair, and a black attire. And even though they're maybe over a block apart, he can see his expression, almost feel it even. It's so distressed and hurt, and it's clear he can barely even breathe because there's just too much pain. He looks as if he might scream, but he still doesn't know what to do with himself. The guilt pools in his gut again, but it turns into a laugh that makes the man before him shudder and hurt all the more. He's done it, whatever it is, and he's damn happy now that it's over. Then the world fades, the blonde man screams, and he's sitting up suddenly once again in his sweat-soaked sheets.

The dream had started happening a few weeks ago, and Arthur really wonders why. Not once has he dreamed something different, even a fraction. The blurred sight of the man, the smell of smoke and blood, the sound of screaming and soft sobs and his own feet slapping the concrete. All of it stayed in his mind, vivid and never not present. The only detail missing was what he wanted to know the most; why the hell someone as "boring" (he'd been described as this on so many occasions, it makes his face go red with anger) as himself would be running down an unfamiliar street like mad laughing. It had to be something good, something amazing, but it was always gone when he awakened. As if the film from the beginning of the dream had been erased.

Sometimes, he tries to piece it together. Sleep purposefully in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes getting the same parts again or nothing at all. Arthur has even tried drawing, sketching the street and the garbage bins and the buildings and.. the man. The one screaming and suffocating in agony, but never close enough for a real good look. He usually remains a faceless, sort of shapeless tall figure that Arthur has to look at and picture in his own mind the real thing to make it fit.

Nothing works, and he feels unlawfully stressed about it. His job has been slacking so much, out of lack of concentration or will and now even when he tries the pictures come out in bad angles. As a photographer, it shouldn't be hard to get inspiration. He rarely had to show his own work, typically getting clients who had dressy models that needed shoots or maybe one that wanted something "eye-catching!" for their magazine article. But here lately, his work has been sloppy, and all he can do is just not care and be bothered about it to an insane extent at the same time.

Nights like this, when he's thinking about work or what fellow photographers across the world are doing with their successful careers or why he keeps forgetting when he's put the tea on so it chills once he's gotten to it, things mellow out and are easier to sort through. It doesn't make them better, nor does it make him feel so, but he's able to think about everything in an organized and thoughtful fashion.

Naturally, the main thing on Arthur's mind is still that bloody dream. It's been weeks now, honestly. And he believes he may be going crazy. Dreams don't typically affect the lives outside them, not like this. He can't afford to lose anymore clients, nor can he continue to let this ebb away at his sanity. Sometimes, like now, he sees stories of fires on the late night news, or stories of murder. And he feels a sluggish, twisting nausea in his stomach that tells him to change the channel or just go to bed, but he can't. His mind feels something as well, like a spark. A recollection. And it may be that he's paranoid or over-thinking it, but he can't help but consider this could be a piece to his puzzle. The missing film from his dream. But he can't figure out who, where, why or how. It's only vague.

Arthur finally grits his teeth, setting the cup of cold tea down on the nightstand before shutting the television off. All of this, it's stupid. An when he wakes up, he's going to calmly sort through different clients and aim for new ones because the dream isn't important. It's not real, and it shouldn't stop him from living.

Short, tousled and unkempt blonde hair is pushed back from his dulled emerald eyes, and his pale hands remain on his face before he sighs and drops them. Arthur sort of figures the dream will return, and he can't stop it. But he's not thinking about that, he's _not_thinking about that. So he lets himself drop against the creamy tan pillows on his bed, breathing in the clean scent of fabric and shutting his eyes. Really, he is tired, and now even the thought of seeing the same street again and the same distressed person doesn't bother him. He's enveloped in the darkness and comfort of his bedroom and blankets, and it'd be morning soon enough.

It starts off as he'd expected it to; the running, the laughing, the dirty smell and the crying and pain. But it's like something's kicked in his mind, has made him think for himself in that realm. The streets are so clear, from the specks on the asphalt to the chips in the sides of buildings to the signs. ..The signs. The god damn signs. And it's then when he almost makes himself look, really _look_with his eyes at a street sign. It's not so much the name of a street, and he can't make sense of it. It's a different language, he can perceive, "mus e des Beaux-Arts de Rouen". He's not sure, as he barely touched on the class he took years ago, but he's suspecting it's French.

Rounding the corner, laughing again, a scream, and he's sitting up again, pausing only to wipe sweat from his brow before he scrambles for paper, anything. He's sure he's misspelled it, but it's enough to be corrected. He realizes slowly that this is going against what he's promised himself completely, and it's seeping into his life more than he ever should have let it. But he has to know. He has to find out for himself and figure this damned puzzle out. On top of that, despite his absolute loathing for traveling, maybe he needs a vacation. A fresh place with new faces and new places and new things to photograph.

Arthur would get back in sync. And when he nestles back down into his bed, feeling a light excitement and a feeling of accomplishment, he drifts back to sleep - not once plagued by the reoccurring nightmare that he's sure he'll put an end to.

**I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING the third person you may have suspicions on is correct, and I am hinting to her. But it's more of a version of her, really, an idea. So the years are not off, I assure you. The plot will come in, I just hate to move quicker than this because it's my bad habit. Review, rate, whatever you'd like. Just give me something, preferably advice? uwahaha.**


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